There were so many winters,. Though the animals did not falter;. Hands frozen, axe-cut splinters. For the wood-fire of an altar. To survival, to your ghost,. As a week became a year,. And life became the most. Barren, the void creeping near. With such love, a searing. Kind of tenderness, fresh,. Fruition in hypothermic bliss,. To the joy of our never-kiss,.

Where I write and you read. Who I will push away. I cause suffering and I hate it. Posted from WordPress for Android. It makes me want to pull my fucking hair out. Does no one listen? I want .

Los lunes siempre son difíciles. Y muchas veces empezamos la semana con ganas de bombardear a todo aquel que se nos cruce por el camino. Los meses pasan, y la onda positiva se expande. 000 pegatinas positivas pegadas por todo el mundo. Y gracias a vosotros, la mancha sigue creciendo.

What Needs To Be Said, But Can Never Be Heard. On The Water it Rushes. On The Water it Rushes. The water it rushes,. There is no hope in fighting,. But do not seek despair in this,. What follows is a garden for the reborn.